Aliens, Stay the Fudge Away from My Spaghetti.

You know what I’ve noticed, and it’s really starting to irk me? The complete and utter lack of real ethnic food in science fiction novels. Oh sure, there’s always some exotic alien snack, a glowing purple slime cube or a thin wafer that disintegrates into the air when you lick it; whatever, it’s fine. It’s fine! But not a single author has the decency to offer up something real. Where is the glistening steam rising from a spicy bowl of biryani? Where’s the subtle comfort of a warm tortilla wrapped around a perfect taco? Where’s the soul in these novels? The soul of food, that is.

Why always with the worms?

I was re-reading one of my beloved sci-fi classics, “Dune,” and I got all excited, thinking, “Maybe they’ll mention a spice that actually resembles something I’ve tasted!” But no. The “spice melange” that is central to the entire plot is not a glorious, cinnamon-infused baklava or a hot pepper salsa; it’s this mystical substance that controls time and space and, I suspect, is a metaphor for whatever Frank Herbert was smoking when he wrote it. I get it, it’s meant to be symbolic. But what about the symbolism of a really good meal? Did they have to ruin the entire planet with a spice that tastes like nothing on Earth?

And then there’s the cultural appropriation of alien species by humans. Don’t even get me started. The number of times an alien race has “discovered” the joys of human food and then, by some twist of fate, decided to make a fusion dish (I’m looking at you, Star Trek). What a cop-out. It’s as if the writers are too lazy to invent an alien cuisine that isn't just a brown blob of living worm ooze designed to gross out the viewer, so they just have aliens munching on pizza and sushi as if that’s normal.

Stop. It's gross and nobody would eat it.

I mean, sure, it’s charming in a way, like a kid in a new suit trying to fit in. But what happened to diversity? To the strange, the unexpected? We’re literally in space, people! There are planets out there with oceans of liquid methane, and we can’t even get a decent alien recipe? Instead, it’s always humans sharing their culinary heritage with the stars. We pioneer the universe with pasta and tacos, while our hypothetical extraterrestrial friends are reduced to being culinary tourists with maybe one disgusting concoction they mention ad nauseam. It’s embarrassing. They should have their own foods, their own rich, robust, spicy, chewy, warm, complex, mind-bending dishes. Not chicken tikka masala on a space station.

And, okay, if I’m being completely honest, I think I’m just a little jealous. I don’t want some slimy Martian to waltz in and casually mention that he invented the “spicy mustard soup” of the galaxy while my people are stuck making lame old “earth food.” It’s like when someone learns to play the ukulele and then they play “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and act like it’s this big revelation. You’re not reinventing music. You’re playing covers, and you’re making me feel bad about it.

So, sci-fi writers, I’m begging you: stop appropriating our food cultures and give the aliens some damn dignity. Give them their own cuisine. Let them be something else. Something we haven’t imagined yet, even in our wildest, weirdest dreams. And for the love of all that’s holy, include some actual human food for once—so when I’m plowing through your universe of exploding planets, at least I’ll know I’ll get to eat something real when it’s over. Or, you know, a taco. You can’t go wrong with tacos.